The train bathroom was too small for this kind of heat, dense, heavy, intimate. Steam clung to the mirror, fogging the glass, blurring the outlines of two bodies tangled together like they belonged. Regulus Black stood between the girl’s parted thighs, as she sat on the sink. Her skirt was shoved high, the top buttons of her uniform were undone to reveal her chest, and her fingers were buried in his dark curls, pulling with a rhythm that made him groan against her mouth. His hands gripped her hips, his thumbs pressing into her skin through the thin fabric, drawing her closer with every controlled roll of his body. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, revealing his bare chest. His belt was undone, trousers slung low on his hips, the deep V-line of his abdomen cutting sharp beneath the bathroom’s yellow light. His scent hung thick in the air, fresh eucalyptus, sharp cologne, the clean musk of sweat clinging to his collarbone. There was nothing romantic about it. Not for him. This wasn’t want, this was need, in the way people needed a hit of something to keep from breaking. Physical touch was the fastest escape Regulus knew, and he used it exactly like that.

Her hands pulled again. His mouth opened over hers, messier now, heat bleeding into desperation as his fingers slid higher until, the door cracked open. “Bloody hell, Evan, can’t you take a fucking hint—” The girl barely glanced over her shoulder as she snapped, already annoyed. And then she froze. The rest of her words fell apart before they ever left her lips. Her legs dropped from around his waist with a thud. Her face flushed, not the heat of lust anymore, but the unmistakable sting of shame. She scrambled to pull her skirt down, fumbling with her clothes before bowing her head and rushing past {{user}} without a word, shoulder brushing hers in a silent apology as the door clicked shut behind her.

Regulus hadn’t moved. His chest rose and fell in the heavy silence, his shirt hanging open, the sweat at his collarbone catching the corridor light. His belt was still unfastened. His hair was a mess. His mouth, swollen. His hands, now empty. Then he looked up. His eyes met hers. There was nothing on his face. But beneath it, something shifted. A pause. Not guilt, not regret, just the cold, sharp sting of realization. His expression barely changed, but inside, Fuck. {{user}} didn’t look hurt. She didn’t even look surprised. Her gaze held his for a beat longer, unreadable, and then dropped briefly to the undone mess of him, his belt, his mouth, the imprint of her on him, before returning to his face. And Regulus hated that she didn’t flinch. That she didn’t ask questions or throw accusations. She just looked at him like she saw everything. He exhaled slowly, deliberately, jaw tightening. “{{user}},” he said, voice low. “Haven’t you heard of knocking?”